


Prologue - #01-386-XX-01 "Jason"

by MissNaya



Series: S I N [1]
Category: Birds of Prey (And the Fantabulous Emancipation of One Harley Quinn) (2020), DCU
Genre: Abuse, Alternate Universe - Slavery, Blood and Gore, Brief suicidal ideation, Cannibalism, Guro, Multi, others are very much not, some slaves are happy to be slaves
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-23
Updated: 2020-07-23
Packaged: 2021-03-04 18:26:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,939
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25470838
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MissNaya/pseuds/MissNaya
Summary: Jason - Servant Identification Number #01-386-XX-01 - doesn't have an identity beyond his station in life. He's hardly more than a series of digits assigned to a piece of living furniture to most people.Bruce Wayne isn't most people.
Relationships: Dick Grayson/Bruce Wayne, Jason Todd/Bruce Wayne, Roman Sionis/Jason Todd, Roman Sionis/Jason Todd/Victor Zsasz, Roman Sionis/Victor Zsasz
Series: S I N [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1844974
Comments: 9
Kudos: 94





	Prologue - #01-386-XX-01 "Jason"

**Author's Note:**

> MIND. THE. TAGS!
> 
> this is the first part in an anthology series I've been working on for a long time now. it's inspired by classic guro works by Waita Uziga and Dolcett, to name a few. it will involve such topics as cannibalism, consensual and nonconsensual gore, slavery, sexual abuse, and other such nastiness. DO NOT READ IF ANY OF THESE THINGS UPSET YOU. I'm serious. this first part is more of a set-up than anything, but subsequent parts will be even more graphic.
> 
> that said, if this is your cup of tea - welcome! I hope you enjoy!

“ _Hey, you! Yeah, you._

_Is cooking dinner taking up too much of your time? Are you tired of cooking batch after batch in your tiny oven, leaving your dinner guests with empty plates and emptier stomachs? Does your old metal spit burn the insides of your meal while leaving the outside undercooked? Don’t you wish there was an easier, more modern way to cook a whole roast at once?_

_Well, now there is! Introducing the new WayneTech Auto-Spit: using state-of-the-art technology, this spit’s patent-pending hydro-pipe design keeps the inside of your roast away from the heat until it’s time to slow-roast the insides. Never have dry meat again!_

_But wait — there’s more! A spit roast should be fun for everyone involved, which is why, if you order now, we’ll throw in this vibrator attachment for FREE! Watch our lovely volunteer, Katie, show you just how easy it is to insert and turn on—”_

Jason mashes the power button on the remote until the screen goes dark. It doesn’t remove the images of the smiling young woman from his mind, naked as the day she was born, readying herself over the rounded edge of a golden spit.

No — almost naked. There was her collar, thin and silver, marked in the middle with the Wayne Enterprises logo.

Just like the one around Jason’s neck now.

He didn’t always belong to Bruce Wayne. For the first 17 or so years of his life, he didn’t belong to _anybody._ But now, by age 21, he’s gone through three “Masters.” Funny how quickly shit can change.

He doesn’t have time to dwell on it. He’s wasted too much time sourly staring at the TV as it is. He’s just avoiding the rest of the “family,” all buzzing around the manor getting ready for Bruce Wayne’s newest gala. He knows he’ll have to make an appearance sometime, knows it’s only proper for Bruce’s “ _servants_ ” to all be there, smiling and making him look good.

But he knows who else will be there. And the last time he was at a gala with Roman Sionis, things didn’t exactly end well.

* * *

_CRASH._

Issues, one by one: the glass in his face. Some of it has managed to slice all the way through his cheek and into his gums. A particularly big shard has found its way into his eye, blacking out that side of his vision. And the rest of what used to be the table is in pieces under him, lost in the plush white carpet that’s slowly turning red with blood.

Okay. That’s fine. It’ll heal.

Issue two: the shouting man with a broken nose nearby. Jason’s knuckles still throb with the memory of the crunch underneath his fist. _God,_ it was so satisfying.

Issue three, and most pressing: Roman Sionis, whose foot is currently grinding Jason’s face into the glass. He’s spitting out all sorts of vitriol, insults and threats, usual Roman Sionis fare. But there’s an edge to it this time, a violence that goes beyond even his usual outbursts.

Jason has embarrassed him in _public._ Badly. “Slave punching a real human person in the face” badly, which is a crime in practically every country known to man.

“— _f_ _ucking_ kidding me, after all I’ve _done_ for you!” he’s shouting. He moves his foot off Jason’s head just long enough to kick him between the ribs with one pointed designer shoe. “You know where you’d be without me?! Back on the streets, fighting other _animals_ for scraps!”

It’s not true, but Jason wishes it was. Wishes he’d never met the man who got him into this mess in the first place.

But that man isn’t here to help him. Nobody is. It isn’t their place to discipline someone else’s slave, and nobody present is exactly thrilled about the fact that one of their precious living set pieces has decided to go rogue. Probably all wondering if they’re next.

If Jason had a gun, he’d mow them all down. Every last one of them. It would be so easy, too; mortals were so _fragile._

Roman continues to kick him, and Jason feels his spine snap, one brief scorching pain before everything below the waist goes numb. He tries to crawl away, glass slicing his hands as he pulls himself across the carpet, but Roman just follows and stomps on an arm. The _crack_ is louder than the one he made when he broke that egotistical Cobblepot’s nose. He screams despite himself, even though he knows that’s what Roman wants, what he likes. All his training out the window as he writhes on the ground, bleeding an impossible amount.

“I’ve had _enough_ of you,” Roman spits. Literally spits; Jason can feel the warm glob of it land on the side of his face that hasn’t been turned into a magnet for glass. “Worthless piece of meat. Do you know how much you’ve cost me?”

Jason wouldn’t answer even if his tongue wasn’t mangled in his mouth, bitten and cut up by shards of the table Roman put him through. He drools blood and looks over his shoulder. Hopes Roman can see the hatred through the glaze of pain over his one remaining eye.

“I want something done about this,” Cobblepot shouts, and his voice is all stuffed up from the thick blood in his ruined nose. It’s funny; if only Jason could laugh, but Roman’s foot has been planted squarely between his shoulder blades, pushing down until he can’t properly expand his lungs. “I want him decommissioned. Incinerated, you hear me? Or I’ll sue you for all you’re fucking worth, Sionis—!”

“Oh,” Roman says, leaning down to snatch Jason up by the hair, “he’s finished. This one has been a thorn in my side since the day I got him.”

Jason looks through one bleary eye at the man who’s been kneeling by Roman’s feet all this time. His perfect little slave with a piercing gaze and a perpetual smirk on his stupid mouth. He can tell Victor is just _thrilled_ by the news; he’s hated Jason from the moment Roman laid eyes on him.

Looks like he’s finally getting what he wants.

“Decommissioning.” The only way a slave can be killed. At least Cobblepot isn’t shy about calling it what it actually is. Jason imagines it, the big furnaces they use at the Decommissioning Centers, leading disobedient and runaway slaves with no hope of reform into the flames. Burning them until they’re ash, nothing left of them to regrow.

He almost welcomes the idea at this point. It’d be easier, wouldn’t it? Easier than working out this bullshit mess he’s gotten himself into.

But then someone steps forward. Someone with a voice that booms, but still retains a gentle quality Jason doesn’t normally hear from mortals.

“Now, can’t we work this out some other way?”

Everyone turns and looks. Jason knows who it is the second he turns his head; everyone in Gotham recognizes Bruce Wayne. He even passingly recognizes his son, the tan, green-eyed brat standing to one side. To the other stands his slave, naked and collared, black-haired and blue-eyed and gorgeous, like everyone Bruce Wayne surrounds himself with.

“Did you see what that thing did? It _punched_ me! And for nothing!” Cobblepot says, his handkerchief drenched in blood.

_Not for nothing_ , Jason thinks. For groping him for what had to be the fifth time that night. For ignoring his wrinkled nose and attempts to shuffle away. For doing… Well, what everyone does to slaves. Exactly what they want.

He wasn’t raised for this. He wasn’t built for this. And, after so long with Roman, he’d just snapped. One punch. One moment of weakness, and it could mean the end of him.

But Bruce Wayne doesn’t waver. He just keeps that smile on his face, tiny and calming, the same way he appears when he’s opening a new park or donating some of his billions to the fine people in Gotham.

The people. Of which Jason is not one.

“Clearly he has some behavioral issues,” Bruce says. And it’s small, but Jason notices it. The pronoun. Not “it.” _He._ “But that’s no reason to—”

“You have _no idea_ the trouble this one’s made for me,” Roman says with a sneer. “From day one, he’s been an untrained, undisciplined _mutt._ I’ve tried everything, but I’m at my wit’s fucking end! Fucking strays, _useless._ ”

He spits again, and Jason shuts his eye to shield himself, leaving him blind. His other eye won’t be able to reform until the glass is out of it, but Jason’s only good hand is preoccupied, grabbing at Roman’s wrist for purchase to take some of the strain off his limp lower body.

“Let me take him off your hands.” There’s a pause, and Jason imagines everyone looking at Bruce, wide-eyed and uncertain. A rumble of a whisper starts up around the room. “Please. I have an affinity for… _difficult_ cases. I’ve had great succe—”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah. Anything as difficult as a slave punching a person in the fucking face?” Roman snarls. “I didn’t expect much from this one, but I thought I’d trained _that_ out of him. Some are just untrainable. Don’t waste your time.”

“Ten million.”

A gasp echoes from one end of the ballroom to the other. Even Jason has to stifle one. He opens his eye, squinting through Roman’s dripping spit, to see if it’s a joke. To wait for Bruce’s snicker and smile, for the whole room to erupt into laughter at the thought of paying such a steep price for a defective slave.

“Now, wait just a minute here,” and that’s Cobblepot, waddling on his stubby little legs up to Bruce. He looks like a penguin, all dolled up in a black and white tuxedo, his hooked nose crooked under his hand. “I demand some sort of— of reparation for this! Sionis gets rid of his slave and gets ten million, and that _thing_ is still loose? I—”

“Each.”

Again, all eyes are on Bruce. Again, he doesn’t laugh.

“Ten million each,” he clarifies. “Ten for the slave. Ten as an apology from his new owner. Would that suffice?”

His checkbook is already in his hand. Jason wonders if he keeps it in his pocket just to show off how he could buy anyone at any time, flaunt his power in the most subtle but insidious of ways.

He hates him already.

But it works on Cobblepot, sends him stuttering before he manages to demand, “Make it fifteen.”

Bruce nods and scribbles something down. Tears off the check and hands it to Cobblepot with a smile, then turns to Roman. “And you?”

Roman’s cheeks are scarlet, and Jason knows it’s not just because of his anger. Roman’s pride has always been a fickle and easily-damaged thing, and he’s always, always hated Bruce Wayne.

“I don’t need your charity,” he mumbles, shooting Cobblepot a disdainful look. “Ten is already more than what he’s worth. I’ll take it.”

Bruce smiles. At Roman, first, as he hands over the check.

But then at Jason. And it doesn’t feel like an ingenuine smile.

Jason doesn’t return it, nor does he even attempt to look enthused as Bruce’s slave bounds up beside him. Roman drops him disgustedly and snatches up the check, and the slave lifts Jason into a sitting position, moving him around until his spine is more or less realigned. Immediately, it starts to stitch itself back together; Jason can tell by the pins and needles that start to shoot down to his feet.

“I’m Dick,” the slave says. “Trust me, you’re gonna love it here.”

**Author's Note:**

> find things such as my artwork and meta discussions on [twitter](https://twitter.com/ultradadnaya) and [tumblr!](https://dicktofen.tumblr.com)


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